Not Strong Enough
by darkter
Summary: dexter ft substance abuse, saracen promises to be there every with him step of the way, set in london in 1994, this whole fic is trash


It'd been months since Saracen had heard from Dexter, years since they'd spoken in person. The last he'd heard, Dexter was alive and well in London. Or, at least, he was alive. Word came in the form of a short, scribbled letter stuffed inside an envelope.

Saracen,

Sorry it's taken me so long to get back to you. How are you? I'm in London, staying with some friends. Hope to hear from you soon.

Dexter

Saracen wrote in response.

Dexter,

I'm so glad to hear from you. I'm doing fine. I planned to come to London some time in the next few months. How long do you think you'll be staying? I could always rearrange my schedule and come sooner.

Yours truly,

Saracen.

No reply. He wrote again.

Dexter,

It's been a few weeks and you haven't responded. I'll be in London on the 12th, hope we can catch up. I'll buy you lunch.

See you soon,

Saracen

Again, nothing to suggest Dexter had even received the letter.

Dexter,

Have you been getting these letters? I'm worried, you usually write back. Are you okay? I get in on Tuesday.

Yours always,

Saracen

Nothing. Saracen arrived in London on Tuesday the 12th of July 1994, as promised. He'd hitched a ride with a teleporter he'd known since the war. It was much quicker than airplane travel, and boats always made him a little queasy.

He checked into a hotel, left his bags in the room, and headed to the address he'd been sending the letters to. It wasn't the sort of place he'd expected when he'd imagined it. In his mind, the house was something regular, with an intact mailbox and perhaps a nice lawn out front. Instead, what he found could hardly be called a house.

The mailbox was there, alright, but it was upside down and sitting by a weed sprouting from a crack in the pavement, as though someone had driven past and bludgeoned it with a baseball bat. Inside the small, green box was a stack of junk mail, along with Saracen's unopened letters.

He felt sick.

The windows were boarded up and the outside of the house had been spray painted, so that it was now covered in cuss words and the half-thought up tag names of the artists that had gone out of their way to deface it. The door was locked. Saracen didn't care. He kicked it in with the heel of his foot.

He stepped through the doorway, something crunched under his foot—glass, he guessed. The house was a large room and a staircase; he scanned the room, looking for Dexter. No such luck.

Most of them sat with their backs against the wall, some of them lay on their backs, while others lay with their heads pressed against the mattresses. None of them seemed particularly bothered by his sudden entrance, a few of them stirred, murmured things he couldn't quite make out.

"Dexter?" Saracen called, "You in here?"

No reply. He made his way toward the stairs.

The second floor was very much the same. Dimly lit, boarded windows, not a lot of light, people slumped against walls and a few sat with their heads in their hands.

He tried again.

"Dexter?"

No response. One of them raised their head, looking toward Saracen.

"Dexter? Is that you?"

"Mm. Who's askin'?" It was dry, his voice was like gravel, and he sounded like he hadn't slept in far too long.

Saracen was at his side in an instant, jogging a little to get there so quickly.

"Christ, Dexter." He wrapped an arm around his waist, helping his friend to his feet. Dexter resisted a little, but ultimately let Saracen support his weight.

"Saracen? What're you doin' here?" He slurred, nuzzling his face into the crook of Saracen's neck.

"Shh, quiet now. I've got you. I'm gonna get you out of here, yeah?"

Whatever plans Saracen had in London, whatever business he had to take care of while he was in the city, had evaporated into thin air the moment he'd seen Dexter.

"Okay. We're gonna have to get you down these stairs. Think we can manage that?"

Dexter mumbled something in reply. Probably disagreement, but Saracen didn't particularly care. The stairs were a challenge, but they made it to the bottom in the end, after a lot of stumbling and cursing.

Soon enough, they were out the front door, and Saracen had gotten Dexter into the passenger seat of his rental car. He reeked. The stench of vomit and sweat clung to Dexter like a disease, but once Saracen had rolled down the windows and started driving, it became slightly more tolerable.

They'd made it to the hotel in just under half an hour; Saracen would never admit it, but he was a careless driver that day, speeding and running red lights. He pulled the sunglasses from atop his head and held them out for Dexter. Dexter didn't take them; Saracen wasn't sure his friend had even registered what he'd been offered, or that he'd been offered anything at all. So, after a brief moment of pause, Saracen placed them over Dexter's eyes, and pulled the hood of his jumper up over his head.

They made it through the lobby with little fuss. They'd received a raised eyebrow from the doorman and a few odd looks from other hotel guests, but soon enough they were riding the elevator up to the sixth floor and stepping through the doorway to his hotel room; recently cleaned and smelling delightful. They'd even bothered to put a mint on his pillow.

Dexter threw up on the carpet.

Saracen sighed, rubbing Dexter's back. Soon enough, he'd tucked Dexter into bed and left him to come down from the high. It was all he could do, wait it out, and wait for Dexter to get his head back.

When Dexter came to, some long hours later, Saracen sat in a chair beside him, reading a book and drinking a cup of tea he'd made himself.

Dexter's head throbbed, his muscles ached, his throat was dry, his vision was a little blurry. He turned to Saracen, tried to sit up.

"Whoa, buddy. Take it easy, there." Saracen placed the tea aside swiftly, dropping his book to free up his hands. He grabbed the glass of water he'd placed on the bedside table, holding it out for Dexter.

"Saracen? What—How'd you find me?"

"You sent me a letter, remember? There was a return address on the back."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Now, drink up."

He did. He drank the whole glass of water in one go, and then he asked for more. Saracen nodded, and returned some minutes later with a slightly larger glass, which Dexter emptied just as quickly.

"You shouldn't have come." Dexter mumbled, wiping his chin with the back of his hand.

"Too late, I'm here now." Saracen offered a kind smile that was met with a dull, broken gaze.

His chest ached. Was it guilt? Yes, he supposed it was. Guilt, regret, grief, pain, anger. He should've been there sooner.

"Where are we?"

"Hotel. Doesn't matter. You good to have a shower?"

"I dunno. Maybe. I don't think I've showered in a while. So, probably. Yeah, I probably should."

"Okay, give me your arm."

"Saracen—you don't have to. I'm okay."

"Dexter, you're not okay. But that's okay. I want to help."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Give me your arm."

Dexter nodded, wrapping his arm around Saracen's shoulders, so that Saracen could help him to his feet and they could both hobble over to the bathroom. It wasn't a particularly large bathroom, but it had a shower and a toilet and a sink, and that was enough.

"I don't have a change of clothes." Dexter admitted, running a hand through his greasy hair.

"Don't worry about it, you can borrow some of mine. Most of it won't fit too well, but I've got your old sweatshirt, so that's a start."

"You still have that?"

"Yeah. Now come on, clothes off."

"You first."

"Not this time, mate."

Dexter offered a wink and a lazy smile, before pulling his jumper off over his head. His torso was bruised and blackened in places, and there were scars littering his forearm, Saracen did his best to avoid looking. He slid out of his pants as Saracen turned the shower on.

Dexter mustn't have cared about the temperature of it, because he didn't wait for the water to warm up. He washed his face, his shoulders, under his arms, put water in his hair and never bothered with soap.

Saracen didn't bother to turn his back, he'd seen it all before and Dexter was more than comfortable with his presence.

"Don't slip."

"I'll do my best."

His best wasn't enough, but Saracen expected it and steadied him before he had the chance to do any real damage. He held him upright, Dexter kept a shaky hand on Saracen's arm for support.

Saracen took the soap from the sink, pulling at the paper wrapper with his teeth and ripping it off. He holds it out for Dexter, who just shakes his head.

"Would it be too much to ask if—"

"It's fine, I've got you."

Saracen, being as gentle as he was able, rubbed the soap over Dexter's shoulders, across his shoulder blades, down his back. He moved it over his rib cage (noticing, as he washed the soap away, that Dexter's ribs were visible and protruding), over his torso, pressing lightly on the bruises, wondering who'd given them to him—wondering if he'd given them to himself.

Saracen used his free hand to rinse the soap away, fingertips brushing Dexter's discoloured flesh, roaming a little now and then.

Dexter glanced back at Saracen, who didn't meet his gaze—couldn't meet his gaze. He looked so sad, he looked tired and this wasn't even the worst of it.

After Dexter was out of the shower and wrapped in a towel, he asked Saracen if he could give him a second. Just a second or two, alone in the bathroom, that's all he needed. Saracen didn't really see why not, so he shrugged and stepped out, closing the door behind him.

It didn't take long before Dexter was leaning over the toilet and coughing up what little he'd eaten in the past few days. Saracen had already tended to the vomit by the door, and he'd expected plenty more of it, but he'd hardly been prepared for it so soon.

_Just a second_ turned into a few minutes, turned into half an hour. Dexter eventually stumbled out looking exhausted and empty, with a towel around his waste and his fingers carding through his hair.

"That was disgusting. I'm not doing that again."

"You don't have a whole lot of choice, here."

"Sure I do."

Saracen paused.

"I'm not—" Dexter sighed, rubbing his face with his hands, "I'm not strong enough. I can't do this."

"Not alone." Saracen, who was previously looking at his hands, glanced up, "But I'm not going anywhere. You can do this, because I'm going to help you."

"You don't have to—I'm sure you've got better places to be."

"I'm afraid not. You're all that's important to me right now. These next few days are gonna be hell for you, but I'll be by your side the whole time."

Dexter frowned, "Yeah?"

Saracen nodded, "Yeah."

"I'm gonna be sick again."

"Okay, I'll be here."

So Dexter stepped back into the bathroom and closed the door over. Saracen sighed over the sound of vomiting and pulled clean clothes from his suitcase, laying them out on the bed. A sweatshirt Dexter had left at his home several years ago, and some tracksuit pants Saracen hadn't really planned on wearing at any point this trip—he thought if he brought them, he might be encouraged to go for a jog or something.

When Dexter emerged from the bathroom again, his forehead was slick with sweat and his skin was cold. He shook slightly—or, he'd always been shaking, but it was beginning to grow more obvious.

Saracen helped him change, helped him back into bed, and sat up camp in the same chair he'd been sitting in a little while previous. He'd filled the glass of water again, and gotten a damp cloth for Dexter's forehead.

It was going to be a long few days, but Saracen wasn't going to give up on him.


End file.
